


Kick Up A Storm

by LouLa



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dominance, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, M/M, Rough Sex, Sometimes Alphas Lose Their Minds, Thunder and Lightning, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 02:50:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LouLa/pseuds/LouLa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek likes thunderstorms. Stiles is undecided.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kick Up A Storm

**Author's Note:**

> PWP. Typed up and posted from my iPhone so please forgive any and all errors.
> 
> Warnings for dub-con and rough sex.

It's the thunder that wakes Stiles, he thinks, even though there's lightning so bright, so often that his bedroom is almost constantly alight despite the late hour.

The next roll of thunder is so loud the whole house shakes with it. The boom and resounding crack make Stiles jump, and it's then that he comes awake enough to feel the weight against his back, a feral grin pressed to the side of his neck. He hears a low, dark chuckle before another flash-boom draws his attention.

"Derek?" he rasps groggily.

The only answer is a hum, a rumble that blends in with the sound of the thunder.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

A nip at the side of his neck, and then the weight at his back lessens. As Stiles twists to sit up, there's a sharp prickle at his shoulder, a rough hand, claws, pushing him down again, face shoved into his pillow.

"Derek?" he repeats, muffled, voice gone high with the anxiety that's starting to creep in.

The blanket separating their bodies is pushed aside, wrenched from between them, and Stiles shivers as the cool air ghosts over his body. There's nothing between them but Stiles' thin, worn boxers, and those too are being pushed and dragged away from his skin before he even realizes what's happening.

"Der- Derek?"

Stiles is starting to panic. The sound of the storm raging outside is all he can hear besides his own quick breathing. Whoever is here with him hasn't said a word, and he's more than a little terrified that it's not Derek at all. For all that Derek doesn't talk, this stony silence isn't like him either.

Growing frantic, Stiles begins fighting the weight settled at his back, pressing him firmly into the mattress from the hip down. The claws are a dead giveaway that whoever it is, they are clearly inhuman. He knows he stands little chance of getting away if they don't want him to, but he has to know.

He throws his elbows out, landing a few jabs before he twists sharply, eyes locking with glowing red in the darkness. He calms instantly, going slack against the mattress as he's again pinned down tightly.

It's stupid maybe, to give in, to feel safe just because he knows it's Derek. Derek's a werewolf after all, an Alpha at that, and Stiles probably isn't ever safe being this near to him, or alone with him, or ever in general. But he trusts Derek.

One clawed hand presses between his shoulder blades, holding him tightly in place. The sound of the storm outside is too loud to hear much of anything else, but Stiles can feel Derek shifting around behind him, jostling both him and the bed. Naked skin touches down against Stiles' - warm, firm stomach against his ass when Derek takes hold of his hips and pulls him up to his knees. The denim of Derek's jeans is still caught around his thighs, rough on Stiles' skin as he pushes his way forward between Stiles' legs, forcing them apart as far as they'll go.

"Hey," Stiles says, struggling again as uncertainty churns in his stomach. He can feel Derek's cock, hot and hard where he's nudging at Stiles, not aiming exactly but pushing at the skin behind his balls and up between his cheeks, over his hole. And if Derek thinks... He better not. Not even _think_ it. "Slow down," Stiles says firmly.

At that, Derek growls, hauling Stiles back sharply, making his face skid across the sheets uncomfortably. Derek pulls him back until his body is flush to Derek's, cock rigid between the press of skin, a hot brand against Stiles' ass.

He reaches back and grabs at Derek's hands, trying to get him to loosen his hold, or let go entirely, but the grip only tightens, pointed claws digging in.

"Okay, okay." He relents, making a show of letting go of Derek's hands. His hold loosens instantly and Stiles lets out a long breath, relieved he's not bleeding. Yet. "What the hell is your problem?" he asks frustratedly, though he remains still, compliant under Derek's palms.

As if on cue, another too loud roll of thunder shakes through the sky, lightning striking close behind, and Derek ruts against him wildly, draping himself across Stiles' back to growl at his ear.

"Oh, are you kidding me? You're going apeshit over a thunderstorm?"

For whatever reason, Derek decides to forgo speaking entirely, growling once more. Stiles rolls his eyes, but doesn't move, pliant as Derek thumbs as his ass, spreading him open and rutting at him some more. Moving slowly, carefully, Stiles reaches for the lube stashed between the bed frame and the box spring.

"If we're doing this, we're doing it the right way, wolfy. No lube-y, no hump-y, comprende?"

He doesn't really expect a reply, since he hasn't gotten one thus far, so when there's nothing but the sound of the rain pounding against his window, he flicks the lid open on the lube and squirts definitely way too much of it into his hand. He reaches back cautiously, because Derek apparently has his claws out and he's not afraid to use them. Thankfully, Derek simply holds him open and makes it easier for Stiles to slick himself up, sink a finger in.

He shivers, breathing out harshly as he pushes in as far as he can, drawing out again with a twist. The angle is awkward, and getting a second finger in is much more difficult than the first, but he manages. He's trying not to go too slow, but he can still practically feel Derek's impatience. He's grinding himself against the back of Stiles' thigh, all warm, sticky skin and shameless arousal. Fingers close loosely around Stiles' balls and he shudders, biting back a groan when he pushes all the way into himself and Derek's thumb traces around his stretched rim.

He doesn't expect it when Derek nudges in between his fingers with his own, spreading them apart. It burns a little, Derek's thumb stretching him wider, pushing in dry against his slicked opening.

"Oh," Stiles chokes out.

Derek's finger is gone just as quickly as it was there. He grabs Stiles' wrist, guides the slick in Stiles' palm over his cock, and then he's at Stiles' hole, hips jerking unsteadily as he tries to get himself in. Even though he's a little worried about losing a hand for his efforts, Stiles grips onto Derek's thighs and tries to set the pace. It doesn't really work, but it's nice to have something to hold into as Derek splits him open too fast, too hard.

"Oh, Christ, Derek," he hisses from between his teeth, clenching them to keep from biting his tongue. It feels like Derek's all the way up into his ribcage. Deep, _too deep_ , and it hurts, doesn't matter they've done this plenty in the past. It always hurts a little - a lot when Derek doesn't take his time. "Too much," he gasps, shaking his head, but Derek doesn't ease up, claws out and poking into Stiles' skin once again.

He hauls Stiles back by the front of his thighs and grinds against him, knocking Stiles' hands away from where they're ineffectually trying to push Derek back. Tears prickle and sting hotly at Stiles' eyes and he blinks them back. Gritting his teeth, he tries to relax, fights not to cry out when Derek pulls all the way out, leaves him gaping and uncomfortably open and empty, only to shove right in too fast and too hard again.

"Derek," he grunts, getting his hands beneath himself. "You need to-" The rest is lost in a yelp when Derek pushes him back down and uses his weight to hold him there, a warning snarl rumbled into the thin skin of Stiles' neck.

He whimpers as Derek ruts at him - slamming in too deep and pulling out too quick, no time to adjust - and clings onto the bed sheets for dear life. He closes his eyes against the _too much, too much, toomuch_ that's overwhelming him. It still hurts, and he's going from turn on to terrified to terrifyingly turned on much too quickly. As rough as Derek is being, he knows Stiles' body, his body knows Stiles', and even though it shouldn't work, it does. Despite the pain and the clawing fear, Stiles is unquestionably into this. He maybe kinda doesn't want to be, because Derek being this forceful and this rough and mean and not listen at all when Stiles asks him to calm down, slow down, is not good.

Derek's the Alpha. That is a fact that Stiles knows without question or dispute, but it doesn't mean he wants to be treated like a bitch in heat whenever Derek feels it. It's not his style. Deep down, he's pretty sure Derek knows that. This demanding, forceful side of Derek isn't something that Stiles has seen before, either. In the pack, maybe, with the other wolves, yes. But never like this. Not in bed, and not with Stiles - at least not in a long time, Stiles hasn't been closely and painfully acquainted with a wall in months.

Which brings about the thought that it was the thunder, the lightning that had Derek pawing at him with so much aggressive intent. If Stiles listens, over the sound of Derek's growls and pants and his own staccato breaths, he can hear the storm raging on. He can feel the timing in Derek's thrusts, matching up to the rhythm of the pounding rain. Each boom of thunder and flash of lightning has Derek's elongated nails flexing against Stiles' skin, digging in. Stiles goes with it, moves with Derek and gives into the pushes and pulls, bares his neck when Derek mouths at it and tries not to come at the feel of rough finger pads on the slick head of his cock.

Stiles has no idea if his dad's home. Even if he's not, even if Stiles knew that he wasn't, he'd still bite down on the noises working their way up his throat. They're embarrassing, high-pitched and reedy, desperate little squeaks of sound that he in no way wants to make. It's hard to keep quiet with how hard Derek is pounding him, his fingers on Stiles' cock, not jerking him exactly but just playing with him, smearing pre-come and drawing out more with knowing touches right around the sensitive tip.

The air feels cold around them but Stiles is sweating, hot with body heat and friction, a sheen of moisture built up between them and rolling down Stiles' neck where Derek licks it away.

"Oh my god, Derek," Stiles groans, hunching further into the pillows beneath him, spine curving almost painfully where Derek holds him. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he whimpers.

He doesn't want to come all over his pillows and struggles to work a hand between himself and the mattress. He pricks a finger on Derek's claws and hisses at the sting of it, drawing his hand back. Derek inhales sharply and goes still with startling abruptness. He snaps out an irritated, "Stiles," before he jerks Stiles up from the bed.

"It's fine," Stiles breathes, shivering at the wash of cool air against his skin. He holds up his finger and Derek catches his wrist in a clawed grip. The nick is apparently not worrying, because Derek lets him go just as quickly and puts his hands back to Stiles' hips.

Derek doesn't hesitate before drawing out and slamming back in again. Stiles nearly collapses into the pillows once more, but Derek catches him and pushes him forward, pressing Stiles' chest right into the ice-cold headboard.

Stiles gasps and slaps his hands to the wall, trying to push away from it but Derek has him pinned. He shakes and squirms hard, whining at the feeling of the cold on his overheated skin.

"Fucking fuck," he curses, and Derek grumbles in reply. He sounds happy and it's the most disconcerting thing that Stiles has ever heard. He's enjoying the hell out of torturing him, Stiles thinks just a moment before Derek catches his cock between his thumb and palm and works him like that, just a rough drag of calloused skin along Stiles' dick.

He comes with a helpless moan, Derek fucking up into him hard enough to almost bring Stiles off his knees, slicking Derek's hand in body-shaking pulses, spurting onto his own stomach and the headboard - and probably the goddamn pillows too.

Stiles shakes through it, palming the wall for support while Derek keeps a tight hold on him, working him through aftershocks and pounding into Stiles right up to his own orgasm. He bites into the meat of Stiles' shoulder when he comes, just a sharp grip of teeth, enough to sting but not hurt.

Stiles sighs with the stillness, one last shudder tearing through him as the heat of Derek's come spreads inside and then, inevitably, down his sweaty thighs. He gives himself a moment to rest, allows Derek a second to bask in the afterglow, and then throws an elbow into Derek's side as hard as he can. It hurts, but Derek's pained hiss makes it more than worth it. Stiles is fucking tired, exhausted, but he manages to twist around and shove Derek off the bed before he sees it coming. And then Stiles sinks too, against the bed while he stares down at Derek on the floor.

"Don't be a fucking dick," Stiles says.

He doesn't give Derek a chance to respond before he lobs the pillow - which does indeed have come on it - at Derek's head and flips over to lie down. He hears Derek stand up, putter around the room, and feels him reach over Stiles, but neither of them speak until Derek gingerly lifts the blanket Stiles has tucked tightly under his arm.

"Let me see," Derek says, somewhere between a question and demand.

"'m fine," Stiles replies tiredly, not moving.

"Sure?" Derek asks.

"Sore. Bruised and bitten and clawed, but yeah, I'm sure," he offers, not gently, but not entirely unkind either, a note of something stupidly fond in his voice.

Derek doesn't apologize, just tries to be sneaky about it when he nudges the blanket off of Stiles' legs and wipes up the worst of the mess on Stiles' thighs with something soft. "Wouldn't hurt you," Derek mutters somewhat tightly.

Which is questionable, to a point, but Stiles finds himself saying, "I know. Doesn't change the fact that you wouldn't slow down."

Derek slides in under the blanket, a long line of heat against Stiles' back. Stiles presses closer, using Derek's chest for a pillow. "I'll run through the next storm. Won't happen again. If you want."

"Maybe," Stiles mumbles, eyes falling shut.

But then, maybe not.


End file.
